The echo of life, the sound of creation, The howl of winds in canyons of faith Depend on greatness beyond human hands. . From the inches of rain to the floods of pain Grow on the branch of life that emerges from Endless seeds of hate for love of all desires In a chest of a human over these times. . Endless tears and grief on aging of times, Hopes die as the sun rises on the flat land Waving and smiling with dead sense of fear As it descends down the deep sea of fiction The aging man changes to a ghost of dust. . Three rocks climbing up a slope converse together. One says : I feel we are climbing downwards. Another says : Do me a favor, this is flat. It is never the same to us, the third says. . Huge snow balls race west to melt and to rest. Small mounts, narrow seas, and shadows of blue; Shades of gray, waves of green with purple tips, Thin masses of tented white, and holes of black Appear like a distinctive mix of a sphere Floating deep throughout the vast space. It bursts and wipes it all; lands and waters. We’re then spirits; the old material shatters. Where we reside, to me it sure matters.